


Bleeding at Distance

by SALJStella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SALJStella/pseuds/SALJStella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty struck too soon. Anytime he struck would be a bad time, but somehow, it'd felt better if John had disappeared after Sherlock got a chance to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the fic war of April 23d. Never forget.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/22362) by myself, goingbadly and mycroftgetoffmysheet. 



> A few months back, the ever-lovely [mycroftgetoffmysheet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftgetoffmysheet) posted an angsty piece of digital art on her tumblr, which I, on a whim, wrote a fanfic of. All well and good, if it weren't for [goingbadly](http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/) stepping in and writing a much more heart-wrenching continuation of this, and... well. Insanity ensued, the term "fic war" was coined. This is my attempt to turn this one day of fangirls being fangirls into a long-running fanfic.

There is one picture of John and Sherlock in the flat that hasn’t been taken by the press. It’s placed at the centre of their mantelpiece.

Mrs. Hudson took it on Sherlock’s birthday. Sherlock looks grumpy, because he didn’t want to celebrate it at all. John wasn’t too keen on it, either, because he knows that the idea of growing older terrifies Sherlock, but he’s smiling in the photograph, both of them leaning across the table so they’ll fit in the frame.

They’d gotten up before Sherlock, prepared breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, jam. Sherlock had been grumpy, thanking Mrs. Hudson politely for the new violin case she’d gotten him, but staring at it like he wanted to set it on fire as soon as she looked away. John knew he’d never use that case. Never see it as anything but a reminder that there would actually be a day when he wouldn’t be able to work anymore. Mrs. Hudson had also insisted on making “birthday muffins,” putting a cake candle on each of them, Sherlock had blown them out reluctantly.

John’s hair is mussed in the photograph, Sherlock in his flimsy dressing gown. John is smiling, he smiles a lot when he’s with Sherlock, even when Sherlock’s in a bad mood. And based on his memory, he’d say that Sherlock spent that whole day as one long hissy fit, but in the picture, he’s smiling as well. The genuine smile, not the one he uses when he has to put up an act for a case.

John runs his thumb over the picture sometimes when he’s alone. Smiles as he did then.

 

The door to John’s room makes little to no noise as it’s pushed open. John still frowns in his sleep, groaning softly. Almost five in the morning. The pale light through the blinders makes his face nearly white, his hair like yellowed paper. His arm folded under his head; it’ll be asleep when he wakes up.

Sherlock wraps his sheet tighter around him. John’s told him to wake him up if he’s having a tough night. He meant for it to sound like Sherlock can always come to his room if he’s feeling ill or he’s cracked a clue on a case, but that’s not what he meant. He only made it sound like that because Sherlock doesn’t want to admit the main reason why he wakes him up sometimes.

Sherlock’s come in here before, for those very reasons. As annoying as they seemed then, he misses them. Walking in on light feet, runny nose, head spinning, John’s gentle hands, mix of a doctor and a friend, as he took his temperature, making little detours with his fingers to stroke the bangs out of Sherlock’s eyes. So much simpler, despite the fever. Things aren’t like that now. Sherlock tries not to consider the possibility that those times won’t come back.

Moriarty. Without even doing anything, he manages to ruin everything that’s important to Sherlock. And the worst part is, Sherlock’s sure that’s exactly what he was aiming for. 

He shuffles inside, closing the door behind him. John’s probably already awake, he’s a light sleeper. He hasn’t quite left the army. Probably never will.

“John?” Sherlock says, trying to sound businesslike.

John grimaces, still not opening his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he mutters.

“I figured out where he’ll strike next.”

He’s standing next to his bed now. John’s one eye finally opens to a blue-gray slit, peering up at him. Not up for this. He is physically able to think of something other than this, then. Sherlock envies him.

“How long have you been awake for?” John says.

Sherlock inhales. Holds out his laptop, like a plea to not have to answer that question. John sighs and moves over. When he moves his arm, he clenches his fingers a couple of times. Arm asleep. Deduction correct.

“Alright. Where will he strike next?”

Sherlock sits down, leans against the headboard and holds his laptop so that John can see.

“See this? His last three heists. Pointless acts, he achieved nothing by them, as was his intent. This is when he’ll up his game, so to say. His next move will be something bigger. Not big enough for the Yard to see a connection, he wants to be found by me. But it’ll be big enough to scare… the public. I figured something in this area.”

He points to a location on the map on the screen. John squints.

“The government headquarters?”

“Around it, near it, but not _in_ it. That’s the idea. People will get nervous. Not nervous enough to take any real precautions, though.”

John’s eyes flicker between the screen and Sherlock’s face. Worried already. He never is, not like this. Nothing worries him except for when Sherlock is worried.

“Have you considered the possibility that that’s exactly what he wants you to think?”

Sherlock takes a breath again.

“I have.”

John keeps his eyes on his face, like he’s waiting for a continuation, some kind of pre-thought solution. When he doesn’t get one, he looks down again.

“We won’t know until afterwards, will we?” Serious undertone.

“Excellent deduction, John, but I was hoping for something more than a fancy way of saying that you’re blindsided.”

John gives him a look. Sherlock can’t help that he gets annoyed. He tries so hard to pretend this is a case, just a bloody _case,_ pure objectivity like a lid over the blind, flashing panic prodding underneath _._

John’s not helping him in that matter. His fear is on display.

Sherlock responds John’s look with a glare. Silent staring contest until John nods and huddles up under the covers.

“We’ll deal with that in the morning. Sleep now, Sherlock.”

“It is morning.”

“Go to sleep.”

Sherlock stares at him as he slides back down the covers, tucks his arm back under his pillows. It’ll go numb again.

Sherlock doesn’t see much room for arguing. Even he finds it hard to ignore when John is genuinely concerned for him. And going back to his own bed seems unnecessary. Being around John helps. For no logical reason, he feels better, even at times like these, when he’s around John.

He’s still trying to figure out what it is. That hot, sort of trembling feeling he’s around him. Safe, but terrified at the same time.  

Sherlock crawls down under the blankets, John’s breathing is already slowing down. Sherlock’s not tired. He doesn’t need sleep. He needs to solve this. He needs John to be okay.

Somehow, when he opens his eyes, ten hours have passed, and John stands in the doorway with breakfast on a tray.  

 

“The headquarters, is that right?” Mycroft says later that day. As usual, if he’s feeling something, his face doesn’t convey a sliver of it. “Moriarty will be visiting my neighbourhood.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock says, pretending to read the newspaper. “I wouldn’t worry, though, seeing as you’ll probably be off making some deal with the rebel base in Iraq by then.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Sherlock responds with a mock of a sweet smile.

“I hope you’re not insinuating that I am in any way putting him on in his little shenanigans.”

“Oh, far be it me.”  

“No one thought that until you said it,” John says into his tea cup. Sherlock’s mock grin turns into a real one. 

“He doesn’t want you hurt, though,” he goes on, facing Mycroft again. “You’re his favourite playmate.”

“Sherlock, you’re not often wrong, but when you are, you are so in the stupidest way one could imagine,” Mycroft snaps back, some annoyance finally flaring up. _“You’re_ the one who’s important to him.”

Sherlock gives him a look. John pretends not to listen, but his eyes on the paper article haven’t moved since this conversation started. So much easier to act like none of this is going on.

Mycroft is the first to break the staring contest. He looks away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Since you got away from him that night at the pool, Moriarty has gotten anxious. Before then, he’s never made a move that could be considered a public affair. And now – three heists in the course of three weeks, with absolutely no effort made to cover them up. I’m sure this is not at all worrying to _you two,_ but it’s very much so to me.”

Mycroft pauses to glare at them. This sudden spring of visible anger catches Sherlock off guard. John still pretends not to notice, face cautiously blank.

Sherlock looks back at him, very picky about giving a look he knows Mycroft can’t interpret. This time, Mycroft doesn’t look away.

“You have two days to crack this case,” he finally says, speaking softer now. “Figure out how his criminal web is constructed and how to uproot it, and my men will handle it from there. If you don’t deliver, I’ll have to see to it that you’re both locked away in some kind of safehouse. For your own sake.”

John finally turns to him.

“You can’t do that.”

Mycroft ignores him completely. His steely eyes are set on Sherlock.

“If I were you, brother, I’d be worried,” he says. The warning note is clear. “I understand this is fun and games to you, but with Moriarty… you actually have someone who can _hit you were it hurts,_ don’t you?”

The sound of his shoes against the carpet fades. John looks at Sherlock, fear naked and raw.

 

Sherlock tries not to think about it. Somehow thinks that’ll make it better. Denial isn’t usually his favourite defence mechanism, but for the first time he can remember, he doesn’t know how else to handle it.

He pretends this is a case like any other. He pretends that he _hasn’t_ been wrong about everything when it comes to Moriarty this far. He didn’t see that it was him when Molly introduced him, he didn’t understand that he didn’t care about the missile plans, and he didn’t understand that he was _(is)_ after John.

Moriarty is one step ahead of him. He doesn’t like to think it’s because Moriarty’s better than him, he prefers to think that Sherlock himself has been lazy. He’s let things slip, and it’s a temporary thing, it won’t happen again. If he hadn’t, Moriarty wouldn’t have figured out all these ways to get to him. He must’ve given things away before he even knew who Moriarty was.

That’s what scares him.

He’s absolutely sure that the main thing he gives away is John. His weakest point. The only one he has, really. The most important thing to keep safe, and the one thing he _can’t,_ since John is in danger just by being around him.

Mycroft is right. Moriarty must’ve known all along. Sherlock must have a fundamental way of acting differently when John is around, it’s in his very bones.

Like the way his body fits so perfectly into John’s bed, like they way they move around each other at crime scenes. Two knots tied to the same string, like they choreographed it. John is the hand on his shoulder, easing down his chronically straightened back, letting him slouch, relax. Comfort.

Even ordinary people would notice _that_. Moriarty even sees the truth, which is even worse. By the time he saw them together, Sherlock could no longer hide that John was the one who can ease him into bed even when he’s on a case, the one forcing him to eat even though he doesn’t need it. John can’t even be called Sherlock’s right hand, because Sherlock’s own hands would never treat him that way, and Moriarty _knows_ this.

_I’ll burn the heart out of you._

It must show clearer than he thought. Moriarty got one glance at them, one day in a lab when Sherlock wasn’t even looking at John and John himself was mad at him, and he knew.

 

John gets annoyed when Sherlock tells him what to do. He always agrees eventually, but he doesn’t like it. Sherlock doesn’t care. Pretends not to care.

The next morning, John tries to go to the clinic, but Sherlock hid his briefcase while he was sleeping. John tries to be understanding at first; this is harder for Sherlock than it is for him, but the more he coaxes, nags, pleads to every rational aspect there is and Sherlock just sits there with his fingertips tucked under his chin, the angrier he gets. But not even when he’s standing there yelling does Sherlock even look at him.

No, of course not. Sherlock wouldn’t let him in on this, would he. Because John’s no bloody _genius,_ and then it doesn’t matter that this concerns him, too. That he and everything he holds dear is on the line here, no, who cares, this is _Sherlock’s_ war.

“It’s for your own safety,” Sherlock finally says, right when John’s about to give up and storm off to his room.

“How exactly am I safer in the flat?” John bites back. “Sherlock, if he wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. Isn’t it better if we go someplace less predictable?”

“This is the closest we’ll come to safety,” Sherlock says, finally granting him a glance. “At least here, Mycroft is watching. We’ll stay here until I’ve thought of a plan. If you go to the clinic, he’ll consider it target practice.”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?”

“I sent her off to her sister’s.”

John sighs. Eventually, he leaves the doorway and sits down in his chair.

“If we’re going to think of a plan, it’d probably help if you’d talk to me.”

“I’ll talk when I’ve _thought_ of something.” Sudden edge to his voice.

There’s nothing in between, is there. Sherlock either talks for hours even though John’s not there, or he’s quiet even though his mind is racing. John knows that Sherlock thinks this is too much for him to handle. After all this time together, he doesn’t seem to understand that Sherlock’s battle automatically becomes his.

John’s almost ashamed of how protective he feels of Sherlock right now. It’s such a critical time, he should be the one with the gun always ready to fire, the one who drags Sherlock onto his feet even though he hasn’t eaten for two days so they can finally crack this, but he can’t. It’s not him.

John just wants to stroke Sherlock’s hair, cradle his head in his lap, make him forget. He wants them both to forget. Sherlock would mock him if he knew about these thoughts, and bat him away with annoyance if he ever tried it, and John doesn’t care.

He can’t force himself to not be sentimental about Sherlock. As convenient as that would be. Sherlock _is_ his sentiments, they all narrow down to him.

 

They spend a couple of days like this. Sherlock looks increasingly worn down, but he never shows any signs of giving up. If anything, his obsession increases. He’s even moved his experiments from the kitchen table to make room for paper clippings, scribbled notes in slanted printing. John stands next to him all the while, even though Sherlock never directly addresses him and only looks at him on occasion. Sometimes, he thinks Sherlock doesn’t even need him here, but every time he leaves the room, it barely takes a minute until he hears Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen.

“John? John, where are you?”

Most of the time, John’s only left to go to the lou or take a nap. But when he comes back, Sherlock always looks like he can finally exhale after letting John stare down the barrel of a shotgun.

On the second day of isolation, John’s on edge. He’s worried about Sherlock and sure that Sherlock’s every bit as worried, but he’s feeling like a rat in a cage, and he doesn’t want to be monitored. For once, he’d like a normal day. He wants to be a normal person going to work and come home and sleep, and Sherlock won’t allow it.

So when John goes to the other room to get a jumper, and Sherlock calls out: “John!” the second he’s out of sight, John turns around and bellows: “I’m not going any _-fucking-_ were,Sherlock!”

He wants to tear his own tongue out when he sees the way Sherlock looks at him.

 

The next attack happens the exact way Sherlock predicted. They see it on the news the next day, still not having solved the tension from last night.

All the previous attacks have been heists, but this one’s a drive-by. Nothing major, but enough to shake people up. Sherlock was right. He’s happy about that until the news broadcast is over, then he gets anxious again.

“Now we need to figure out what he’s going to do next. What’s he going to do next?”

He’s mumbling to himself, biting a nail. His hair is frizzier than usual, the dark circles under his eyes. John suddenly sees them, after choosing to ignore them for these past couple of days.

“You’re no good exhausted, Sherlock. Go to sleep.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him. Twitching gaze.

“It’ll be bigger next time. Just a little bigger, or will this be his final showdown? If so, what’d that be? Something major, obviously, but will he strike at me, or…”

John rolls his eyes. Manages not to get terrified through the sheer force of will, or maybe denial.

“Enough for now. Come on.”

John stands up from the sofa and lightly pushes Sherlock down. Sherlock doesn’t fight it.

“It’s going to be soon. He thinks I’ve let my guard down.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t. You never do.”

John takes a blanket from the armchair and sloppily drapes it over him. _(He’s too skinny.)_ Sherlock’s hands lie stiff next to his head. He’s so pale.

John strokes his hair. Presumably, he’d feel even worse than he already does if he didn’t repress most of the things he feels right now.

He’s about to straighten up and go to his bedroom, but suddenly, Sherlock grabs his sleeve and pulls him down again. Red-rimmed eyes, staring without really seeing.

“John. You have to be careful. Promise me you will be careful.”

John tries to get words out, but the look on Sherlock’s face strikes him dumb. Even though he’s sure Sherlock has no idea what he’s saying, it feels like these words have been his drive behind these past couple of days. Rather than sleep, food, normal, healthy worry, it’s this raw, blind fear that’s kept him up and fighting.

“I’ll be careful, Sherlock.”

“Promise. You have to promise, John. No matter what happens to _anyone_ else, to Mrs. Hudson, or Harry, Lestrade, or…”

He abruptly quiets down. Good. John doesn’t want to hear how he’d end that sentence.

The vice-like grip on his sleeve. Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear what he’s saying. John slides his hand over his. Trying to ease him down, like he knows he can. Like he usually can. Then again, they don’t do this. Sherlock doesn’t act like this.

“I promise, Sherlock. Nothing’s going to happen. He won’t get to us. I promise.”

Sherlock nods, uncertainly. He relaxes a little, the grip on the shirt loosens. He lies back down, but his eyes doesn’t leave John.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” John repeats. Sherlock closes his eyes, and John stays by the sofa for a bit. Observes his face.

The curve of his nose, the lose strands falling over his forehead. John doesn’t want to feel like he has to print this image in his head in case it’s the last time he sees him, but god help him, he does.

If this were any other case, John would’ve stayed up with Sherlock all night. If it were any other criminal they were going after and Sherlock talked like this before falling asleep, John would’ve woken him up and ask what he meant by that. He would’ve been afraid of Sherlock’s fear, because he wants Sherlock to be indestructible.

But this isn’t any other case. Despite what they try to act like, the way Sherlock drags his feet into John’s bedroom in the morning, sounding businesslike.

John’s so afraid that he honestly can’t feel the fear. Instead, he thinks that Sherlock’s being irrational, this is going to be okay, they’re always okay, Sherlock always gets all swept up in things and then they laugh about it the next day over takeout. This is the same, exactly the same. He thinks that because that’s easier.

John sleeps in his armchair that night. He tells himself it’s because he wants to be here if Sherlock wakes up acting hysterical. But he’s fairly sure that if he went into his bedroom and left Sherlock here, it’d feel like goodbye.

 

John wants to call Sherlock pet names sometimes. He doesn’t know why.

It’s never something he considers actually _doing,_ he never turns it into a rational, coherent thought. He just hears sweet words pop into his head every so often. When he tucks Sherlock into bed, when Sherlock’s upset about an unsolved case and doesn’t want to show it.

He hears himself think _oh Sherlock, darling,_ when he dabs his busted nose with disinfectant. Those sudden pangs of nursing affection that he can’t brace himself for.

He would never say any of these things, because Sherlock would hate it. And he doesn’t know why he wants to say them. Sherlock is the least endearing person he knows.

 

Sherlock does wake up the next day. He hasn’t died, he hasn’t gone into some kind of psychosis. John isn’t dead either, as it turns out. He awakes from a sleep even lighter than usual by Sherlock placing a cup of tea on the table in front of him.

John blinks sleep out of his eyes, closes his mouth. It tastes terrible. Looks up at Sherlock, not a trace of the panic from last night.

“Morning,” Sherlock says softly.

John almost forgot what he sounded like when he wasn’t being abrasive.

“Morning,” he replies. “Feeling better?”

“Fine. I figured we can relax for now.”

John looks up.

“What?”

“He won’t strike again. Not anytime soon, anyway. It’s a bit late for it today, it’s almost noon, but you’re free to go to work tomorrow, if you like.”

John sits up straight. His back protests painfully.

“And you’re basing this on what?”

Sherlock sits down in his chair with his own cup in hand. And he’s smiling, sincerely, for the first time John can recall since that horrible night at the pool.

“The Yard took a few of his men in last night.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“My reaction exactly. They do surprise you sometimes, don’t they? The henchmen doing the drive-by got a flat tire on their way from the crime scene. Not as dramatic as the Yarders would’ve liked, no doubt, but apparently, while they were waiting for another car to come pick them up, it was a race between Moriarty’s men and the Yard, and the Yard got to them first.”

A smile ghosts over John’s face, but it quickly fades.

“How can that make us safe, though? It’s not like he’s got just one set of henchmen.”

Sherlock shifts his legs.

“True. But he won’t make a move before they’re released from custody. He’ll get them out of there, obviously. But before he does, he’s afraid they’ll talk, and thusly, stay low.”

John smiles and notices he’s exhaling, like he’s been holding his breath for the past week, which he kind of has. It’s too early to be relieved, but he can’t help it, can’t help but trusting what Sherlock tells him. It’s what he does.

He’ll learn later on that just because he wants something to be true doesn’t it make it true. And more importantly, just because he wants Sherlock to be flawless doesn’t it guarantee it. But that’s for later.  

For now, he just grins, and is incredibly thankful that Sherlock is sitting opposite him, whole, happy, and not that wreck of a man he saw last night.

“Okay then,” John says, shrugging with a smile. “First day of freedom. How should we celebrate?”

Sherlock’s smile grows wider. He glances over the apartment, running slim fingers over the seam of his dressing gown. John finds himself staring at his hands until Sherlock speaks up again.

“We’re out of milk, aren’t we?”

“We’re out of everything.”

“I’ll go get some, then.”

John actually startles, and Sherlock struggles not to laugh.

“You’ll get milk?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not feeling well?”

At this, Sherlock does laugh. Then he goes to get dressed. When he comes back out, John is sitting with his laptop. He doesn’t look up when he enters the room.

His fingers are still so clumsy on the keyboard. There’s a stain of tea on his shirt. Sherlock feels it again, that warm ache, right in that spot where he’s supposed to be empty. _My John. My blogger._

John’s been his only company during this time, this absolutely terrifying time. And Sherlock’s been so difficult. He’s been an absolute pain. He’s ordered John to stay in sight, controlled his every movement, fear clouding his judgement, his whole existence feeling altered when he’s not in the room, like waking up after sleeping off a cocaine high. It’s abusive, domineering, John must hate it. It’s a terrible relationship, and yet, even though Sherlock hasn’t locked any doors, John hasn’t left.

He hasn’t done anything other than telling John he’s safer in here, and John’s stayed here, because he trusts him. More than he should.  

John would be so much better off without him. And yet, standing here, Sherlock feels that while his mind knows this, another part of him doesn’t care. Some other part reaching for John, through barriers of logic. That other part is not sure what it longs for. John. Touch, his warmth. An emotional response. To what?

Such a purely emotionally driven longing that Sherlock is absolutely cold with fear.

“I’ll…”

John looks up from his computer. Sherlock clears his throat.

“I’ll see you soon.”

John nods. Small smile.

“Sure.”

Sherlock walks out the door, closes it behind him. He stops several times on his way down the stairs. That other part still struggling to get back to John, like he’s tied to a string, keeping Sherlock with him.

 

It’s like being an hour away from home and realizing you left the stove on.

Sherlock feels the second he walks into the flat that something is wrong.

There’s no real indication. The door is still locked, there are no signs of forced entry. Even John’s desk lamp is still lit, like it’s trying to indicate that he’s still there.

But he’s not. The realization hits Sherlock like a bucket of ice tipped over his head.

John is not here. He’s gone.

Technically, Sherlock has only really set foot in the living room. Just because John’s not in his eyesight right now, doesn’t it have to mean he’s gone. He could be in the lou, taking a shower, in the kitchen, or having gone out for a walk himself. He could be _anywhere_ that’s not in this room, and still completely safe and out of trouble.

And still, Sherlock knows that’s not the case.

John’s safety is like his own. When it’s compromised, he feels it. That string that ties them together. Tethered to each other.

_No. No._

In a complete state of denial, Sherlock strides into the kitchen.

“John?”

Bangs the bathroom door open. _No._

Checks his own bedroom; empty. Runs up the stairs to check the other.

“John?”

_He’s gone._

_Stop it. Stop it._

“John?”

_He’s not here._

_No. Stop it._

Sherlock walks back into the living room. The panic is rising up again, that irrational one that’s been luring in the background since that night by the pool, the night he realized that they ran a risk of this happening.

Has to keep his head clear. Has to think. For John. _Oh, John._

Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, pacing back and forth, before his gaze gets stuck on a spot on the mantelpiece.

The picture. Sherlock birthday, the muffins, John smiling, sleep still in his eyes, Sherlock next to him. It’s gone. An empty spot between the skull and that dreadful snow globe Harry gave John for Christmas.

“Gone.” Sherlock tries to pick up his deduction abilities again, even though they’re quickly drowning in a wave of nausea and a burning lump in his throat. “Gone. Why would he take it?”

He starts pacing again. _Think._

“To show that he’d ruin everything that mattered? No, too simple. Why would he take it?”

He abruptly stops his pacing when his gaze gets stuck again.

Moriarty didn’t take the picture. It’s still here, lying flat in its frame on the coffee table. When Sherlock sees it, he wishes he would’ve taken it. Wishes he didn’t have to know.

The glass is broken in the frame; either it got busted in a fight, or Moriarty just wants to emphasize again which parts of Sherlock he’s aiming to hurt.Ugly cracks over John’s smile. Even worse; red drops drying across the glass. John’s blood over this; the proof. _(You couldn’t hide it if you tried. What he means to you.)_

Not even that’s the worst part, though.

The worst part is the yellow little post-it sticking to the table, next to the frame. Slanted handwriting. It looks like Sherlock’s own.

_He may be ordinary, but he sure can bleed. JM_

For once, Sherlock wishes for less knowledge. He doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want to know. He wants to rewind, he wants to stay in the apartment this morning and wring Moriarty’s neck with his bare hands when he comes in here.

Or, even better. He wants to never have met John, rewind to that day at St. Barts and stay in the morgue, whipping that corpse until Stamford gives up trying to find him, that weird man he was going to introduce John to.

He’s not meant to feel things. He’s a brain, John was his heart, and this is the price has to pay for having one.

Sherlock wants this all to be gone. He wants nothingness. 

 

 

 


	2. Weakling

Darkness.

Not absolute. Shadows.

John doesn’t wake up per say, just floats in and out of consciousness enough to establish this. That’s no reason to panic.

He probably thinks he’s at Baker street. Or he fell asleep on Harry’s couch, that’s happened before. He tends to get drowsy, it’s always so hot at her place. Her scratchy cushions, sweat beading. She’d just sit by and read a magazine until he woke up.

John is still tired, so he goes back to sleep. He will have another hour or so of peace.

The next time he wakes up, he’ll notice the cuffs around his wrists.

 

John had said it at some point. _Sherlock, I think I’ve seen you eat a healthy meal just about… five? Four times, maybe? And yet you can outrun a cab? Just so I know, are you sure that you’re human?_

Sherlock had grinned at him. It had been a joke then. There, in the safety of the flat, or through the dying nerves at a restaurant after a case. A joke.

Sherlock curses his humanity. He wishes he was stone, ice. Cold. At least not so stupid and slow and oxygen requiring, _faster, faster._

Sherlock wishes he could leap over buildings, like the giant from the fairytale. But it wouldn’t matter if he could, because no matter when he got there, it would be too late, and no matter what he does from here on out, it will be his fault.

He should’ve known. He knew this is what would happen. He didn’t want to believe it, so he chose to ignore it. Sherlock is weak and stupid, and because of it, John will…

He slaps the thought away.

Even now, he can’t bring himself to think it.

Mycroft is sitting in his chair, legs crossed stiffly, the spoon next to his teacup in perfect line with the edge of the table. He looks so cold and steady that the placement of the spoon seems perfectly deliberate rather than a jittery, obsessive product of a life-ruining OCD. As usual, Sherlock ruins his perfect image – a quiet room, an immaculately placed teaspoon. The stupid little brother bursting through the door, sweaty, terrified, John’s blood still on his fingertips.

Mycroft looks up stirring his tea, that wry little smile that Sherlock usually hates. Now, he barely registers it.

“Ah, brother dear. To what do I owe the…”

“Mycroft, please.”

Mycroft quiets immediately at that word. Sherlock doesn’t blame him.

 _Please._ The word falls over his lips so rarely.

“He’s got John.”

Mycroft doesn’t move. Marble statue, until he puts the spoon down.

“I see. How long has he had him?”

“Forty five minutes, at most.”

“Is there, to your knowledge, any major organisation that Moriarty hasn’t infiltrated?”

“No. I don’t know. There might be some left.”

“Let’s hope.” Mycroft puts the cup down, nudges it to erase some invisible imbalance, and knits his fingers together before looking up at Sherlock. “Well, then. I’ll put my best men on it, and…”

“They won’t find anything,” Sherlock pants, with emphasis on every word. “What the hell are you expecting, that he’ll turn out to have made a _mistake?”_

“I never said you couldn’t look on your own,” Mycroft snaps. “For Christ’s sake, take the papers we have on him, read them backwards for all I bloody care. And stay at Baker street. It serves as bit of a safe house at the moment.”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to ask when Mycroft even had a chance to put up new surveillance cameras. The last time he discovered one in the bookcase he smashed it to bits and then went to Mycroft’s house and moved everything in his kitchen a tad bit to the right.

“My secretary will give you the papers on your way out,” Mycroft says, standing up, straightening his sleeves. “Go home, Sherlock. There’s nothing you can do here.”

Sherlock’s chest is still heaving from the run. He doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to see 221b so depressingly empty, have to face the fact that for the first time since he met John, he’s utterly and completely alone.

Neither does he really want to be left with the huge responsibility of finding John on his own. He wants Mycroft to take care of this, wants to be the little brother again.

Huddle in the corner while Mikey turns danger away at the doorstep.

In a haze, Sherlock bends over, leaning both hands against his knees. Mycroft doesn’t move. Empty stomach, fatigue, grief, and resentment, resentment, resentment. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

“All this is about you, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally says. “You’re like a little Christmas gift that he wrapped for himself. He would never take John anywhere where there’s no way for you to find him.”

“I never got to tell him.”

“What?”

“I never…”

His aching lungs. Sherlock said it under heavy breaths, but Mycroft heard, and he can’t unsay it now. Can’t take back a realization that’s slowly sinking in, pieces of the puzzle clicking in place in his brain.

He doesn’t look at Mycroft. Sherlock expects a comeback that’s so snarky that he can actually hear that annoying smile in his tone, but when Mycroft speaks up, his voice is softer than he’s heard it in years.

“He knew, Sherlock. Everyone knows. And we’re going to find him, you will get to tell him. Now, get to work.”

Sherlock dares a glance at his older brother. He’s met with a blank stare, that one he’s so familiar with, so Sherlock figures they’re back to their old roles. He responds by straightening up, fixing his collar, turning around and walking out the door.

It’s just what they need to do. In order to maybe, maybe, get everyone out of this okay.

 

Mrs. Hudson remembers.

She’d greeted Sherlock by the door, not paying much attention to the man he brought with him. It wasn’t her place to judge, or even try to interpret Sherlock’s actions. She knew he was a good man, deep down, beneath the quips, the whining, the complete disrespect for most people, and that was enough for her.

She remembers walking ahead of them up the stairs. She was probably worried that Sherlock had made too much of a mess already, and wanted to clear up whatever she could before the other one came in. Sure, if he were to live with Sherlock, he’d have to put up with far worse, but a little tip of the scale in the right direction wouldn’t hurt…

Mrs. Hudson remembers hearing Sherlock’s shoes against the steps, walking it in a few long leaps, as usual, and the man following him. His shame over his cane was almost audible, just in the dull _thump_ of it hitting the wood.

The typical Sherlock behaviour would’ve been to storm up the stairs and burst through the door, and when his companion had finally limped his way up to the flat, Sherlock would turn around as if he’d forgotten someone else had come here with him.

But Mrs. Hudson remembers; the sound of Sherlock slick-soled shoes leaping up the steps, followed by that sad _thump_ of the cane. And Sherlock’s shoes stopping outside the door. The handle wasn’t turned until the _thump_ had worked its way up the stairs.

Sherlock was using common manners. Such a small indicator.

But Mrs. Hudson remembers.

 

“Doctor…?”

John groans.

“Oh, doctor Watson?”

It still hasn’t come to him. He’s average ‘just woke up’-annoyed. Maybe he slept on his arm funny and that’s why his wrists are aching, maybe Sherlock woke up feeling ill…

John’s head rolls back, grimaces as he finally opens his eyes.

“Hello.”

That grin.

Oh god.

John flinches, out of reflex. He last saw that face right after Sherlock had freed him of a straightjacket of explosives, it doesn’t allow him a slow awakening.

Moriarty.

No. Not like this.

Please. Not to Sherlock.

John almost rolls his eyes at himself when he realizes that’s his first coherent thought.

_Don’t do this to Sherlock._

He never glorified Moriarty by thinking he had a moral code, but somehow, he still _hoped_ for it. John wanted his final showdown with Sherlock to be grand and epic, out in the open, on the battlefield, because John could help him there.

Not like this, not blackmail, appealing to the emotions that Sherlock has tried so hard to hide that they’ll lose so much time just for him to get in touch with them. He hoped, and still, John is here, uncomfortably tied to a chair, in a light, fancy, horrifying office, and Moriarty is behind a desk in front of him, a young, handsome man, Jim the IT guy, who committed his first murder when he was eleven and looks at John like he wants to tear his stomach open and feed on his entrails.

“I’d say that the headache goes away in a bit, but I’d be lying,” Moriarty says, breaking the silence. “I’ll be doing other things to your head. Might mess you up a little bit. But…” he shrugs, scrunching his nose in a deliberately childish way. “I figured you’d figured as much. You may be an idiot, but I’ll give you that much credit.”

John knows you’re not as creative as you’d like to be at times like these. The snappy comebacks he’s heard in movies are gone, and all that remains are the clichés. _Where am I, you’ll never get away with this, where’s Sherlock, is he okay, if you hurt him in any way I will rip your fucking head off, I swear to god…_

Moriarty knows he’s thinking this. If he didn’t, John wouldn’t be here.

Moriarty stands, walking up next to him. Through the white-flashing fear, John is a tad bit annoyed how tall he is from this close. He waves a hand, rolling his eyes theatrically.

“Come on, ask me stuff. This is boring. We’re going to be here for a while, I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot…”

The last word fades out on a high tone. John wants to bang his head open against the edge of the desk.

He doesn’t ask anything. It all seems pointless, except for one thing he’s pretty sure Moriarty can’t answer.

“When’s Sherlock going to be here?”

Moriarty gives him a look, before gazing out the window. The way he switches between cartoonish and downright Victorian villain would’ve been funny if John’s wrists weren’t going raw.

“Shouldn’t be too long. My guess is he’s talking to that pudgy brother of his right now.”

He does what looks like a dance step as he turns on his heel and leans against the edge of the desk.

“I mean, considering how long it usually takes him to start flinging around when he thinks you’re in danger.”

John wishes he could meet his eyes. A few seconds afterwards, the decision is made for him, as Moriarty leans down, swiftly and without warning. Their faces are centimetres apart, there’s a whiff of fruit gum on his breath and John will remember that one detail for as long as he lives.

“What is it about you two, huh?” Moriarty murmurs, John struggles to move away and hopes that Moriarty somehow won’t notice that. “I mean, no offense, but he’s _Sherlock Holmes,_ and you’re… you know.”

John feels his fingers twitching, tries to control breathing. _You’ve talked about this in therapy, Watson._

“You’re just a bloody… _guy,”_ Moriarty goes on, spitting the last word out like it tastes terrible. “Why would _you_ be the one to break down Sherlock Holmes? You’re not even all that pretty. Are you at least funny?”

_In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus. Breathe._

“Sounds like you’re jealous,” John gets out between gritted teeth.

Moriarty grins. It looks terrifying this close, takes up John’s entire field of vision, a landscape of insanity, can’t get away.

“Let’s leave the deduction up to Sherlock, shall we?” He reaches up to graze John’s face with his fingertips, John fears he might die. “Don’t try to be the cold calculating one, Johnny. It really doesn’t become you.”

He doesn’t stop smiling through this entire string of words. After being quiet for a few seconds, he bellows something, sounds like a dog barking, and John hates how he flinches, almost jumping out of his skin. Moriarty looks so bloody _pleased_ when he finally straightens up.

John’s been in a war. He’s seen men die, he’s been to the battlefield with Sherlock and had a gun right to his forehead. Moriarty uses no violence, not even threats of it, he just stands there. He just fucking _stands_ there, and John is suddenly a frightened little girl.

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill Sherlock just now,” Moriarty says as he circles his desk to look out the window again. “I just want him to suffer immensely. Unfortunately for you, you’re the best way to accomplish that.”

John shrugs, trying to seem indifferent.

“I’m sure he loves us both equally.”

Moriarty turns around, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

“Really? You think he’d get in on a threesome?”

When John just stares at him, dumbfounded, an odd mix of embarrassment and something else, Moriarty smiles gracefully. John doesn’t have time to see what he takes out of his pocket before it hits his forehead and the entire world goes white for a split second.

He strikes him again, unceremoniously and unsentimentally, like it’s a household chore he has to do. Three quick bursts of pain. When it stops, John’s head is hanging limp to the side, and he doesn’t know which way to turn in order to straighten it up.

“You’re a funny guy, doctor Watson,” Moriarty says, wiping the blood of the butt of his gun. “I hope Sherlock will let me kill you quickly.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with John as he licks the blood off his finger. Swaying back and forth, John wants to throw up and then cry. He does neither.

“Let me tell you how this works,” Moriarty says, sitting down on the desk and hoisting his knees up, resting his feet on John’s lap. “I’ll ask you questions. Every time you answer in a way I don’t find satisfactory, I’ll do… things like that.”

John feels blood against his lips. His eyes doesn’t tear up and he doesn’t look away from Moriarty, that feels important somehow.

“Not that I care all that much about what you say, I just…” Moriarty gestures feebly against the cut his gun has made beneath John’s nose. “As I said, I need to rough you up somehow. How else am I going to lure that little fox out, huh?”

The hard soles against John’s thighs. Lungs burning, wrists chafed, and it’s the first time since he met Sherlock that he’s been in pain and not wanted him there with him.


	3. Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting the forbidden rooms of the mind palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys. If you're still hanging in there, big kudos to you. 
> 
> JUST LIKE JOHN'S STILL HANGING IN THERE, RIGHT? RIGHT? 
> 
> ...no?

_You had the needle picked out._

“Shut up.”

Sherlock’s throat feels weird saying that. Shortage of breath (panic attack, close to tears), it’s closing down. Breathing from diaphragm, relaxing. Supposed to relax.

_You were close so many times, so many times before you met him. But that day, you had the needle picked out. It was right there, in the bathroom, waiting for you on the sink. Wasn’t it, Sherlock? Wasn’t it?_

“Shut _up,”_ Sherlock hisses as he spreads papers in front of him.

It’s all right here, the complete records of all the crimes they think are by Moriarty. Of course, they have no real clue. That’s why he also got full access to the Yard’s computer system.

Mycroft has probably contacted Lestrade already. Sherlock’s phone has lit up with his name three times since he sat down with these papers, but he hasn’t picked up. Lestrade won’t find anything, and Sherlock can’t afford to get distracted. Which is why that voice in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Mycroft) needs to be quiet, right now. 

 _That needle was on the sink, and then Lestrade gave you word on that case. The one that required you to whip that corpse, to be at St. Barts. You went there, because the cases were what you lived for, all you were good for, but the needle was still there, on the sink, and how you_ longed _for it, Sherlock, you were whipping that corpse and you kept your mind busy but it kept going back, you always drifted to the thought of going back home, making it all go away…_

Sherlock swallows and places his fingertips against his temples. All the files are spread out like a fan in front of him, with John’s laptop to his left, and he’s looked through them all without finding anything to help. Instead, he focuses inward.

Mycroft said it himself; this is all about him. Moriarty wouldn’t hide John anywhere where Sherlock couldn’t find him.

_You were so eager to end it all, you saw that needle in front of you for that whole day… but after you went to Baker street together, you left the needle on the sink in your old stay and you never went back for it, didn’t you? You haven’t missed it once._

“Shut up, _shut up,”_ Sherlock growls and stares at the inside of his eyelids. “He’d take John somewhere special. Somewhere that’s special for me, he’d want me to feel wooed. The first time, he took him to the pool. Where has he taken him now? Somewhere from my past.”

_But you don’t want to think about the past, Sherlock. It’ll be physically impossible for you to do that. It was all darkness before him. All darkness, like it’ll be when he’s gone._

“The drug den, then,” Sherlock says. “That’s my life before John. He might keep him there. Why not?”

It doesn’t feel right, but it’s all he has now. Sherlock picks up the phone.

_Send men to all my previous drug dens. Where I used to buy, use, pass out, all of it. – SH_

_Right – M_

“How does he handle his addiction?”

John looks up at him.

“Like any ex junkie. He finds a new addiction.”

Moriarty puts his fingertips against his lips. He seems to be particular about showing John his profile.

“He never misses it?” he goes on.

“Of course he does,” John says. “More on some days than others. Some days he’s downright unbearable, then I get him talking about tobacco ash.”

Moriarty turns to him. He looks politely amused.

“Is that all you do to keep his adrenaline in line, doctor Watson?”

John makes sure his face doesn’t move a muscle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Moriarty shrugs.

“You’re basically his den mother. Den mother, personal physician, and partner in crime fighting, all in one. And I’m sure Sherlock Holmes is a very demanding man.”

“That’s the understatement of the bloody millennium,” John says. “But he doesn’t miss the cocaine, save from special occasions. Most of the time, the cases are enough to keep him in line, and I’m more than happy to assist on those.”

Moriarty watches him, it feels like a very long time.

“I believe you,” he finally says.

John isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. Moriarty turns to pretend to look at some papers on the desk.

“How much do you know about Sherlock’s past, doctor Watson?”

“Not as much as I would like.”

John is careful to not let his face give anything away.

Sherlock doesn’t talk much about the past at all. He likes to tell stories, brag about old cases, show off. But when John asks about medical history (asks as his doctor, but so worried about the answers – _have you slept with a prostitute, Sherlock, any blood transfusions, what have you done to yourself?)_ the most random things can be brought to light. Blood poisoning when he was nineteen, a brief hospital stay for malnourishment when he was twenty-seven, and John always asks what happened, Sherlock acts like he doesn’t hear him.

And at odd times, John is just genuinely concerned, when he sees how Sherlock runs himself down for a bloody case, when Mycroft mentions their parents and Sherlock’s eyes go black. _What happened to you, Sherlock, what the bloody hell made you this way?_

Sherlock doesn’t answer often. It happens, though.

It’s odd how distant someone can be and still mean so much.

 

“We’ve broken into all the places I know about,” Mycroft says. “Are there any that I don’t?”

Sherlock chews a fingernail, stares out the window.

“I don’t know, Mycroft.”

“Try to _think,”_ Mycroft presses, and Sherlock feels himself shutting down.

“I am _thinking.”_

He’s being cruel. Mycroft should get that Sherlock doesn’t remember much from those years, and even if he could, he doesn’t want to.

“You’re not,” Mycroft goes on, Sherlock hears his shoes against concrete floor. “If you did, you would delete something.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“You need to revisit those rooms in your little palace, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “Don’t let your past ruin the best part of your present.”

“Do you have anything of importance to say, _Mycroft?”_

Mycroft doesn’t reply right away. Sherlock hangs up.

Those years. The worst of times. Sherlock closes his eyes.

It’s a blur. He hasn’t forgotten, he’s carefully repressed every single possible detail, and now he has to dig them up. John will go away if he doesn’t.

“Somewhere Moriarty would hide him,” Sherlock mumbles. “Somewhere Mycroft doesn’t know. Where did I use to go…”

He tries to revisit those rooms. He has to walk through long corridors, past rooms of earlier childhood years. The yard where he would look for bugs, keep them in jars in odd pairs to see which one would kill the other. The playground

(it starts getting harder to keep walking, this part of the palace are filled with rooms he’d rather not keep)

getting pushed around, _freak, wanker, freak, freak, freak,_ Sherlock speeds up his steps until he reaches an alley. Exhales. A silhouette leaning against the bricked wall between trashcans.

It was raining this night. But then again, there were so many nights…

Sherlock can taste the bile in the back of his throat. The shame.

“But you never did complain when you were here, did you?”

The man turns to him, Sherlock can’t see his face. What was his name again? Darren? Dean?

“Derrick,” the man says.

He’s in view of the streetlight now. Sherlock finds he can’t move.

Derrick is older than Sherlock is now, and much older than when Sherlock used to see him. He’s in his early forties, scuffed, but well-built. You wouldn’t be able to tell what he was from one glance.

He had a job, too, a proper…

“Real estate,” Derrick says. “I used to tell you about it. You knew to listen, even though you didn’t care.”

That’s right. He used to tell Sherlock.

_I have money, sweetheart… I can take you away from all this. You don’t want to end up here, with all the other street rats…_

And Sherlock looked up at him…

“Through those pretty lashes…” Derrick murmurs.

And knew that he’d rather die, rather be dead…

“…than go on another day like this…”

Sherlock isn’t sure if it’s him or Derrick who says it.

It doesn’t really matter.

“I never went away with you,” Sherlock says.

He almost sounds like he means it. Right now, he’s not so sure, and there’s no way Derrick doesn’t know that.

“I got out,” he says. “I’m clean. You… can’t… _touch me anymore…”_

It doesn’t feel like it. Right now, Sherlock is twenty again, on his knees, the sticky smell of Derrick’s pubes in his nose. So vile it wasn’t even worth the ounces of cocaine he’d get afterwards.

He’s out now. He’s out.

This is what Moriarty wanted. For him to get lost here.

Derrick doesn’t lay a hand on him. Sherlock pulls himself out, opens his eyes and he’s a grown man, clutching his cell phone in a sweaty hand, shaking so hard that he has to retype his message to Mycroft three times.

_The alley crossing on Noel st, Soho. An office or so nearby. SH_

Mycroft doesn’t ask what his business where there, thankfully.

It’s one of the places Sherlock made very sure not to have to be picked up from.

 

“Have you two ever fucked?”

John’s first instinct is to sputter enragement, but a reminder not to throbs at his temple.

“No,” he replies calmly.

“Would you like to?”

“No.”

“Would he like to?”

“No - ” John swallows the word, careful not to say anything that can be misinterpreted. “How would I know?”

Moriarty nods. He does one of the cartoonish faces again, wide eyes, pouting bottom lip.

“True. You’re an ordinary, after all. No matter how highly he thinks of you.”

“He’s impossible,” John says. “I don’t know how he functions, he… he almost never eats and it doesn’t slow him down. He doesn’t need food, why would he need sex?”

“But he would otherwise?” Moriarty immediately jumps at it, he looks ecstatic. “If he were sexual, you would?”

John feels a blush creep up his neck, presses another drop of blood out of the side of his head. He feels a need to defend himself, but doesn’t know against what.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I really don’t. I don’t know how he… works.”

There’s no other way he could put it. The thought had stricken him, of course. What it really would take to attract Sherlock Holmes, even though he doesn’t want to himself. Some part of John must attract him, that’s the only explanation why Sherlock would even tolerate him.

“Would you like to find out?”

Moriarty cuts off his stream of thought with an amused drawl. John’s eyes snap to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I know Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty goes on, oh, how he _loves_ John’s curiosity, the way his ego is fed, like a cat being stroked. “A lot better than you, in fact. I know about his past, parts of him he’ll never tell you about. I know how he _works._ And I know his sexual history.”

John tries to keep his face blank. Moriarty is already loving this, his eyes are gleaming from above.

Is this his whole plan? Making sure John feels jealous? Getting to know Sherlock on the level John does, an intimacy that goes beyond the stalking, the obsession Moriarty’s obviously been using to get close to him?

“And I think, doctor,” Moriarty goes on, hitches his feet onto John’s lap, “that deep down… you’re a little jealous.”

John’s gaze falters, just for a second. Moriarty leans a little closer. The fruit gum in his mouth smells like it’s going stale.

“How you love him,” he murmurs, low, almost sensual. “The absolute center of your universe, you _worship_ the ground he _walks on…_ but you don’t know him. It’s an idea you love, doctor Watson. Isn’t it?”

John clenches every muscle in his neck to keep from leaning away from him. Keeps his eyes up, even though Moriarty’s face is all he sees and it’s terrifying.

“Is that why you brought me here?” John says hoarsely. “To get to know him better?”

“No,” Moriarty says and shakes his head, exaggerated movement. “I told you, I brought you here to hurt him. And hurt you, to hurt him. Oh, that reminds me…”

A wet, blunt sound when the gun hits him, square in the face this time, John grunts in surprise. The pain doesn’t come until a few seconds afterwards, a dull fire spreading across his face. His nose is clogged up with blood, warm against his lips.

When his world stops swaying, Moriarty is cleaning his gun again. He doesn’t look up as he starts talking.

“In his early twenties, Sherlock used to prostitute himself in Soho to acquire cocaine,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather. “He’d get down on his knees, eagerly swallow someone’s soggy, dirty cock, and then find an equally dirty basement to use in, before one of his brother’s men found him and brought him back home.”

He looks up with a smile, as if he’s waiting for John to have a question. John feels his breathing getting ragged, his whole head is throbbing. Rage makes staying conscious easier.

“Why the fuck are you telling me this for?” John hisses, tugs needlessly against the handcuffs. “Am I supposed to think less of him because of some bullshit information you dug out of the slum?”

Moriarty keeps smiling and keeps needlessly polishing his gun.

“Maybe not now,” he says cheerfully, “but I imagine we’re going to be here for some time, doctor.”


End file.
